


Your Turn

by apple_pi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Oh-so-wrong, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 15:24:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7444234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your turn,” Fred said gleefully, and George shied away.<br/>“Isn’t,” he protested. “I went the last three times.”<br/>Fred snorted. “You tested the Daydream Charms, twit. That hardly counts.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Turn

**Author's Note:**

> My first-class ticket to the Special Hell. (Upgraded from coach, where I landed with all that LOTRPS.) ALSO. I am in firm denial about any character deaths which may or may not have been written about in the seventh book. DENIAL. (Or you can just imagine this happens before that. But I invite you here into Denial River. The water is fine.)

“Your turn,” Fred said gleefully, and George shied away. 

“Isn’t,” he protested. “I went the last three times.”

Fred snorted. “You tested the Daydream Charms, twit. That hardly counts.”

“It counts!” George jerked his chin at his twin. “Besides, I did at least one more before that, too.”

Fred thrust the vial at George. “Before the Daydreamers it was the Headless Hats,” he said. “Hardly a test of your grit, was it? The last thing _I_ tested was Nose Growers. And before that the Rock Sweets.”

“Ah, those are fun,” George said. 

“I’m sure this will be fun,” Fred said maliciously. “Bottom’s up.”

George made a face and accepted the vial. “How much do you think I should take?” The liquid contents steamed gently, though the glass wasn’t hot.

“Start with three drops,” Fred suggested. “Like veritaserum, maybe?”

“All right.” George sniffed the vial, then reached for an eyedropper. Three drops of oily purple syrup on his tongue, and he closed his mouth and swallowed, making a face.

“How’s it taste?” Fred took the vial back, slipping it into its holder, then turning back to George.

“Nice,” George said. 

Fred squinted at him. “Is it already working?”

“No.” George looked... innocent. It was an unusual expression for him.

Fred led the way out of their work room, into the front room of the flat. “What’s your name?” he asked, whirling suddenly on his twin. 

“Cyril Fotheringay-Phipps,” George said promptly.

Fred beamed. “That’s the stuff, then.”

The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant back-and-forth, Fred amusing himself by asking George question after question, just for the joy of hearing his answers, which bore no resemblance to truth. “This stuff will sell like mad,” Fred predicted as they prepared for bed. 

“Won’t,” George said. “It’s pants.” He yawned, pulling the duvet up to his chin.

“Tired?” Fred said, climbing into bed; George mumbled “No” and began to snore. Fred sighed and lifted his wand from the bedside table. “Nox,” he said, and the room went dark. “It’ll all be worn off tomorrow, any road,” he said, and tried to go to sleep.

 

The morning started inauspiciously, with Verity knocking at the door to the flat. “Mr. Weasleys, sirs?” Fred rolled over, groaning. “Mr. Fred? Mr. George? Are we open today?” 

“Be right down!” Fred called, eyes opening wide, looking right into George’s startled hazel gaze. “You forgot to set the clock,” Fred hissed, and George hopped out of bed and vanished into the loo.

“It was your turn,” he called, voice still thick with sleep, and Fred yelped, leaping up. “Wasn’t!”

The next few minutes passed in a flurry of mumbled _Pardon_ s as both of them struggled into clothing, then robes. “Ready, then,” Fred said, and George shook his head, following him out the door.

They began with a little rush, Fred at the counter with Verity, George in the stock room. Things quieted around half-ten, and Fred excused himself to Verity. “I’m going to step out for a bit of breakfast,” he said. “Shall I bring you something?”

She turned pink—she was always doing that, Fred thought—and stammered something.

“I’ll get you a muffin, then, shall I? Tell my brother to run upstairs for our nameplates, please,” he added. “Forgot them in the rush this morning.” He stepped out the door.

Widow Whelkin’s Teatastic had the best muffins, so he stepped in and traded gossip with the proprietress as she wrapped up three for him. Back at the shop a moment or five later, no one greeted him when he stepped inside to a wheezing bray from the bell over the door. “Bloody George,” Fred muttered. He could hear voices from the back room.

He had his mouth open to call out when he heard Verity:

“Mr. Weasley, sir?”

George: “Mm?”

Verity: “You’re Mr. Fred, aren’t you?”

George: “Yes.”

Fred peered around the door. Verity stood before George, one finger curling through her mousy hair, large eyes fixed on George’s face. “Oh, good,” she said, dropping her gaze, her face pinking. “I’ve been hoping to ask you something.” She didn’t wait for his reply. “I’ve always like you best, you know, and I wondered if perhaps we might go out for dinner sometime. Would you like that?”

“Oh, certainly,” George said. “Anytime you’d like.”

That was enough of _that_ , then. Fred cleared his throat and stepped into the stock room. “Hullo,” he said cheerfully. “Verity, have a muffin, won’t you? And watch the front for a bit. I want to pop up to the flat with Mr. Fred here,” Fred smirked at George, who blinked back at him, “just to make some tea. We should be back down in a few minutes.”

Verity accepted the bag and scuttled past him; Fred pulled an unresisting George up the stairs and closed the front door firmly behind them both. “Anti-truth potion still working?” he asked, pushing George back against the door.

“No,” George said.

“So... it is?” Fred hazarded. 

“No,” George said, “I told you, it’s not working anymore.” He opened his eyes very wide and stared at his twin.

Fred scowled. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Elizabeth Vickers,” George promptly replied.

Fred grinned. “Perhaps we ought to rethink the dosage,” he said. He sharpened his gaze on George’s. “So, do you know you’re lying, when you lie?” he asked curiously.

“No,” George said. He shook his head slowly, eyes never wavering.

“And you have no desire to go out with young Verity down there,” Fred said. He pressed a little closer. 

“That’s completely untrue,” George said. He sounded a trifle breathless.

“And you’d just hate it if I did this,” Fred purred, running one hand down George’s side, resting it on his hip. Fred’s thumb bent, shifted: pressed gently onto the inward curve of George’s hip, through the shop robes and the denim beneath. 

“Stop it,” George whispered. His robe was beginning to tent out in interesting ways. Well, so was Fred’s, but that could wait.

“I don’t think I will,” Fred said.

An eternity of scalding kisses and clumsy, hurried fumblings later, George had his head tipped back against the door and his twin limpeted to his side, one hand moving steadily to the accompaniment of George’s stuttering breath. “Want me to stop?” Fred said into George’s ear.

“Yes,” George moaned, moving his hips to meet Fred’s fist. “Stop it. Don’t. Don’t.” George had a grip on Fred’s arm that was going to leave bruises; his other hand was clenched, knuckles thunking dully against the closed door every once in a while. “Stop it,” he said, opening his eyes suddenly, tightening his hand on Fred’s bicep. “Don’t kiss me.”

Fred laughed, quiet and wicked, and covered George’s mouth with his own. A moment later he felt George gasp into his mouth and jerk in his hand, and the warm, wet evidence of his orgasm made everything slick and smooth. Fred continued stroking until George shivered and winced. “All done?” Fred asked, pulling his hand away.

“No,” George panted. “Ready to go.”

Fred chuckled and waved his hand distractedly, using his left to reach awkwardly into his pocket for his wand. “ _Tergeo_ ,” he said, then put the wand back. “That was fun.”

George had straightened from his slump against the door. “Rubbish,” he said, tucking himself back into his trousers. “Wasn’t.”

Fred adjusted himself in his jeans, stepping back to press against George again, pushing his erection against George’s hip. “I liked that,” he said, low. “Liked hearing you say _No_.”

George’s eyes were very close, and rather dark. “I didn’t like it at all.” He tilted his head, and another kiss sparked and flared between them; Fred groaned and ground himself against his twin.

“What would you like to do about this, then?” he said into George’s ear, grasping his hand and placing it squarely on the source of his discomfort.

George squeezed. “I certainly don’t want to suck you off,” he murmured.

Fred laughed, and George dropped to his knees.


End file.
